I am trapped in the vortex of my profession. And not because I can’t quit when I want to, that I can. I am confined since I believe the word prostitute is written all over me. Of course, it is not. Yet I am in this constant state of mind that makes me think everyone I meet in this town knows what I do for a living. Every time I am not at work and a man says a word to me, I get the impression he knows that I sell my body. Thus I handle conversations from that context, no matter the topic. My mind is so set I end up reading more than necessary in every word. As a result, I frown many times, become edgy, get quaky, and converse cautiously.
If, as some have suggested, I will be cursed for being a prostitute, then this is it. No matter how hard I try I am not able to conquer the feeling that I scream prostitute wherever I pass. Not that I am ashamed of being a prostitute. But I’d love to live a private life, and keep what I do to myself and the people in my business circles. Then there are the obvious reasons to do with the perception of loose women by the larger society.
There are times also when I want to forget I am a prostitute and don’t want to be reminded. For instance when I am role-playing at some classy up-market joint. Yet every stare is a reminder, and every smile belies some sort of “I know how you earn your money” undertone. Nothing less than hiding can save me from this, men and women will always stare, smile, and seek to talk to me.
Somehow it is unbelievable that some of the men in such places are the same ones who visit Koinange Street once in a while. Whereas when they come to the street they are all bravado, careless in their talk and with I am the boss attitude, in the up-market pubs they approach women with some dignity which borders on a sense of being intimidated.
Some three or so months ago, around 6 pm, I was in such a bar, seated alone at a table, fantasizing while working on shots of Jack Daniels. And as usual with many bars in the city, the music playing was soul, a beat which makes me feel part of the crowd rather than give me the solitude of thought I seek in such places, and which I bet can be provided by some jazz, instrumental or not so common music. There were few people in the bar. Across the room, I had noted a man who kept stealing glances at me before abruptly standing and coming to my table.
“Can I join you?” he asked. I was irritated. There were two or three other women seated alone. Why did he come to me if not because prostitute was written all over me? For that simple reason, I disliked him immediately. His hair was receding funnily. At five feet four he was shorter than me. I didn’t have a problem with his looks, but his decision to approach me. He was from Kampala, Uganda. He was a globe-trotting consultant of sorts. He didn’t seek to know what I did for a living. He just said he liked me and thought me fantastic. We talked about the usual banter such as the weather. I did most of the questioning about his work. At the end of it, I gave him my telephone number. Some few days later he called me with news he had sent a parcel to me; a pair of shoes which didn’t fit me. This made me dislike him more.
A week later, the man who I will call Kaguta for now, wanted to meet me at the airport. He was en route to Kampala from some European country. I had the option of not meeting him but there I was waiting. Deep inside me, I wanted him to ask me what I did for a living, then I would go on about my copywriting job. Perhaps he knew I was a prostitute, the reason he was avoiding asking a question he maybe thought would embarrass me. I knew if I stripped my ego and role playing issues he had the potential of becoming a good customer. It was a push and pull between self-respect and survival instincts. The meeting was short. He offered me some expensive designer perfume, and $ 100. If I had any pride left in me it vanished at that moment; I could not resist the money….
(I will post a short, final continuation of this story in a day or two…)
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I got to read some Langston Hughes poems this last weekend. And I easily identified with one titled Motto:
I play it cool
I dig all jive
That’s the reason
I stay alive
My motto
As I live and learn
Is dig and be dug in return
